I remember Emily, her face seems tired and weak, but she will always manage to smile. In her last days, she asked the calendar to be removed in her room, she told me that she didn’t want to notice time and for once stop being occupied with thoughts. Whenever i cry beside her, she would tell me, “Don’t be lonely, the angels will take care of me, and we will all be resilient in the heavens of peace and serenity.”

I know that the “peace and serenity” she’s talking about is the memorial park. Now that i am here, those words about peace and serenity felt stronger two years after i heard it.

Emily died almost a month after she’s totally unable to communicate with us. As i try to put the memory back, my mind raced in time as i reckon that scene in St. Lukes which opened us to reality.

“I’m sorry ma’am. The treatment doesn’t seem to do any better,” the doctor went, contradicting Emily’s daily statements that she feels stronger within everyday, “and as we continue this, her body just becomes more pained. We can make the certificate as soon as you are rea–”
“NO!!” mother shouted, as reality now breaks in. “We will not stop, we will not give up! We’re NOT cutting off her oxygen…” mom trailed off, for she broke down and fainted. I myself, seemed to be surprised. Everyone who’s unprepared by that statement will lose sanity for a while. Emily had truly lost contact from us for two weeks already, and i can well remember her last statement, “Kuya, shall the angels signal you to let go of me, please…just don’t give them a hard time.”

I sighed as my eyes watered, thinking that these words are only from the mouth of an 8 yr old. Euthanasia. I know what she meant, she wants us to give up the impossible, to cut the respirator that induces life on her.

Mom’s thinking was totally bugged by the euthanasia thing, that two nights after the doctor’s confrontation passed before i got to talk to her while she’s on tranquilizers.

“Mom…i think doc’s right.” i said in a low, quite embarrassed voice.
“You’ve lost faith, Miguel?” mother seemed apathetic of me.
“Think of the price we have to pay, so we can only delay the death certificate!!” i grew furious.
“I am willing to lose all my riches for Emily…” tears filled mom’s eyes. She didn’t seem to mind my fury.
“You can spend all that we have, Mom, BUT IT’S NOT GOING TO PUT EMILY BACK THE WAY SHE WAS BEFORE!” i stood up, unafraid to cry infront of her.
Mom looked at me, in my outrage and tears. “Miguel…i don’t know…” she cried, i offered her my shoulder. Losing someone is very painful, that the word painful can be quite an understatement. With Emily, i know, and i hope mom knows, we have already lost her… nothing can change that.

A week later, the decision was made. In removing her oxygen, the heartbeat will surely stop, and Emily is officially gone. Only me, Stephan (my little brother) and uncle Billy were in the room when they took off her oxygen. For the last time i got to see Emily’s face with just the way it is. Tears rolled my cheeks. Her face had grown very thin and the circles of her eyes are nearly purple. The doctor glanced to see her heartbeat, and a few seconds later, the beep, the flat line, pierced our ears.

Stephan, who’s her bestfriend, broke down and cried hard and loud. I held him, and in that moment, i felt like we are the three saddest people in earth and that room is the darkest one.

I flinched back to reality and looked at Emily’s epitaph. A sister, a daughter, an angel sent on earth. Her life was too short, and i wish the leukemia had just picked me instead of her. …lived life with cheerfulness, thankful with her gifts… The winds blew, almost sounding like chimes in my ears. My beloved Emily will always be in my heart.

As i think of her, i seem to hear the words carried by the wind, “I am here, in the arms of my angels, with peace and serenity, kuya.” I told myself, that sometimes, fighting, no matter how hard, can’t win us want we want to have, and we must give up. Let Emily go, set her free, was better than letting her be pained and lonely in the hospital bed. Now that she’s in the heavens, i know, that she’ll be up there, making prayers for me and the world she left behind.

First day of the second semester, lunch break– the time of the students to nap, read, just be. In a corner, Clarisse’s guitar is silently strummed by her fingers of artistry. Her long, thin, wavy brown hair hanging loosely on the side of her face told everyone not to disturb her.

A hit in the making. Clarisse is the guitarist and main songwriter of the band “Helena”. As if sensing something, Clarisse flicked her eyes to her right, and as she expected, a guy in glasses met her eye. Lloyd turned away, embarrassed of being caught. Staring at me again. Clarisse rolled her eyes and the corner of her mouth twitched, controlling the grin that would’ve been.

Lloyd’s face went pink. He looked away for quite a moment, and glanced shortly to see if Clarisse is looking, although he knows the answer. She’ll never notice me. Just this morning, he read the sign board, “Helena on state tour. Looking for groupies.” Clarisse had been his classmate since he can remember, but he never got a chance to make a good conversation with her. His childhood memories reminded him of playing with her in the riverside just once, before Clarisse moved away to a nearby town and studied there. When she returned, his feelings of cherish never faded, but now she is popular, influencial…and he, nothing but an ordinary student in the same town with the same unfulfilled wishes.

Clarisse stopped strumming and received an sms from the band. She can personally choose one who can join the tour. At this she was reminded of the little shy boy in her youth, now in glasses.

She stood up and people glanced at her by that, respected as she is a local celebrity, or as one having that mysterious profile– well-known name with little known info on her bio.

“Friends at Dimmsdale,” she began, uncomfortable by this act, for she never had any true friend at Dimmsdale except for someone. “By my choice, one hoisy crowd, “Clarisse,” Lloyd raised his hand with a smile or frown drawn in the face, nobody can tell. But all know, he seems to be reciting for Physics. That nerd.
With thrill on Clarisse’s part, she asked the lad to stand up, “Hope you know, Lloydie,” smile.

Twelve years back, in the riverside, Lloyd reckons in his vision a sepia toned afternoon with a little girl in short curls beside him, tossing pebbles to the water. She opened her mouth to talk, but Lloyd seemed to be admiring her face rather than listening to her words. “Bryan wanted me to have his guitar, you know.”
“Who’s he? Your dad?”
“Lloydie, duh, he’s my brother. And would dads give guitars to their little daughters? Think.”
She’s a little angel sounding like mom…he thought, almost giggling. “Why did he gave you? such a thing for adults?”
“Bryan said to me, that i shall continue his dreams cause he sees himself in me. I might also move away, if needed. He wants me to take it with me.”
“That’s weird.”
“He calls it Star Cloud…”
The needed information has been reckoned, but his heart strives to remember more, the last memory he had of her. “Bryan moved away, and i’m deeply hurt. I don’t want being left out.” she pouted.
“I’ll never leave you Lizzie,” he told his favorite playmate, partly confessing feelings for her. He had kept his promise, never left the small town thinking that maybe Clarisse returns one day. Promising you’ll never leave someone and ending up being left alone, was almost too much to bear.
“Reality check, Lloyd. Got any answer, hmm?”
He felt slapped to present, the past fading out. “Star Cloud, Bryan’s…your brother’s.” he said in a shaky voice. Clarisse’s eyes shimmered. She’s still the same girl with the same things that make her happy. Lloyd cleared his throat and looked at Clarisse.
“Sign you in, Lloydie. Lucky.”

The room was filled with intense disappointment, Lloyd was stunned, and Clarisse just went on with her business– tell her mates she has one and began to work in her guitar. Three minutes seemed eternity to Lloyd. As he looked at Clarisse, she winked at him, and somewhere from the past, Lloyd heard giggles from an eight-year-old. An angel’s note.

About the Blog. Prose At Hand is a blog with works of prose with a purpose of expression, entertainment and keeping some heads busy. We may not be the best, but at least we try our best.

About the Author. We got only one author, yours truly. I’m a teenage student somewhere in the Philippines. Among my interests are music and writing. I think perfect living is the one filled with solitude. Shall you have requests and other things to say, just do so via comment!